


Billy and the Collaborator

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Gelsomina, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock experiments on a new slave with John’s assistance, which gives John a sudden attack of conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Billy and the Collaborator

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“…I’m just saying, it’s Sally’s job,” John pointed out as they walked along the corridor.

“Her job to irritate me at every turn,” Sherlock huffed in frustration.

“Her job to look after the other slaves,” John clarified, since apparently this point required clarification. Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look and he knew to tread carefully. “I mean, it _is_ her job, right? That’s a fact.” Sherlock made a face he interpreted as acknowledgement. “And Molly was exhausted after the other night. And you wanted to see the marks after a week, right?” John remembered. “So you wouldn’t have put new ones on her tonight anyway.”

His impeccable logic failed to sway Sherlock, for some reason. “You know, I _am_ perfectly capable of having sex without performing an experiment first,” he insisted with exasperation. “It’s simply more efficient to combine them in one appointment.”

“Have you ever thought you might get better-quality sex if you _didn’t_ also do an experiment?” John suggested as they rounded another corner.

“Have you ever thought I might prefer the experiments to the sex?” Sherlock shot back.

“I _have_ thought that, yes,” John admitted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his tone, which was veering a little close to armchair psychology.

“Well I’m sure Barry will perform adequately on both counts, he was so eager to volunteer,” Sherlock judged sarcastically. Of course, _no one_ volunteered for him, except Molly and John.

“I think it’s, um, Billy—“ John corrected, looking back over his shoulder. To see no one there. “Oh, hang on,” he called to Sherlock, jogging back the way they’d come. “We seem to have lost him.”

This was exactly the sort of thing that made Sherlock burn with impatience. “If he’s run off, I’ll not stop him from being flogged,” he shouted down the corridor.

Fortunately John found the lad just a few turns away, looking bewildered in addition to uneasy. “Sorry, sorry,” he sputtered to John. “You’re walking so fast, and all these hallways look alike…”

“It’s alright,” John assured him. “But let’s hurry along back, okay? You can imagine Sherlock doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Billy agreed unhappily, as if he was imagining many other unpleasant things besides.

“Look, it’s really not going to be that bad,” John tried to tell him once again. “I know everyone says it’s bad, but it’s really not.”

“Why would everyone _say_ it’s bad, then?” Billy asked sensibly.

John did not have a pithy answer for that, at least not one he could say as they approached Sherlock, who tapped his foot, glaring at them. “Were you trying to run away?” he demanded of Billy.

“No, he just lost us on a turn,” John answered for him, cheerfully.

Sherlock huffed and began striding again. “Keep an eye on him,” he warned John, who took frequent glances back at the other slave now.

“You don’t think he’s a bit young, do you?” John asked Sherlock in a low voice.

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock assured him. “Bobby, how old are you?”

John gave the other slave a look to point out that he was being addressed. “Seventeen, sir,” he answered promptly.

“Sixteen is the age of majority for slaves,” Sherlock noted briskly, “so he’s fine.”

John shrugged a little. “Just a bit young for my tastes,” he commented daringly.

“Did I ask about _your_ tastes?”

“No.”

“There _may_ have been a reason for that,” Sherlock added snidely, which counterintuitively made John chuckle. They reached the door to his suite and Sherlock swiped his thumb over the pad, unlocking it. John decided to give the lad another pick-me-up talk before they entered.

“Okay, seriously, you don’t need to be so nervous,” he told him, squeezing his shoulders in a chummy way. “It’s really okay, he’s very methodical, it’s not like he’s doing it in anger.”

“He beats people… methodically?” Billy asked dubiously. Clearly this didn’t seem better to him.

“I’ve been here lots of times, it’s fine,” John promised, finally stepping into the suite. Immediately he tripped over something heavy on the floor. “What the h—l!” he exclaimed, flipping on the light Sherlock hadn’t bothered with. “When did you get this plant thing?”

Sherlock reappeared around the corner. “Yesterday. Don’t touch it, it secretes a compound that causes paralysis.”

John and Billy steered clear of the plant as they crossed the living room. “Um, that’s not what we’re doing tonight, is it?” John asked.

“No. I’ve got some new belts to try,” Sherlock called from his room.

“Oh, see? Belts. Bog standard. Do you have that expression here?” John checked pleasantly. Billy shook his head. “It means routine, boring, basic.” Billy’s face said he wasn’t sure how that was applicable in this case.

Sherlock reemerged from his room, having removed his jacket. “If you need to use the loo, do it now, there,” he instructed, pointing to the hall bath.

“Thank you, sir. Think I will, sir,” Billy decided, ducking inside.

John followed Sherlock back to his room, where he was numbering his new belts for proper recordkeeping. “Um, what am I here for again?” he asked curiously.

“You are here to do tedious things like reassure Bart, provide some semblance of sexual satisfaction if he chooses to leave after, and because I got Sally to agree to release you,” Sherlock listed briskly.

John didn’t know whether to be amused or offended. “’Some semblance of sexual satisfaction’?” he repeated archly.

“You’re supposed to be on light duty,” Sherlock reminded him. “Straighten up the bed. That’s oral sex only.”

John began smoothing out the disheveled blankets. “I didn’t realize you considered that an ‘only,’” he remarked with a smirk.

“I dislike limits.”

“Well that’s shocking.”

“When one has limits, especially such narrow ones,” Sherlock went on, queuing up something on his iPad, “it greatly reduces the capacity for surprise and titillation.”

“I’ve not found it so,” John replied dryly.

“Did I ask your opinion on the subject?”

“No, but I think you should have,” John told him, which at least made Sherlock look up. “Learned a new technique the other day. I was going to ask you to help me practice it,” he teased, trying to keep a straight face, especially when he could see Sherlock’s interest.

He tried to hide it, per usual. “I’m sure it’s not new,” he scoffed, warming up his arms with some stretches.

“Well, new to me.”

“It’s no use trying to be friends with Baz, you know,” Sherlock went on unexpectedly.

“No use trying to learn his name, either. How d’you mean?”

Sherlock gave him a straightforward look. “They’re not going to like you if you hang about with _me_.”

John wasn’t sure if that remark was putting down _him_ , putting down _Sherlock_ , or not even true. “What? Come on.”

“No, it’s true, you’re _tainted_ by association with me,” Sherlock claimed. He wandered into the master bath but didn’t shut the door so John followed him, finding him at the sink washing his hands.

“People like Molly,” John pointed out by way of counter-example. “People _love_ Molly.”

“Molly projects an aura of sweetness and mental damage,” Sherlock assessed cynically.

“Well, she—“ John gave it some thought. “Well, I suppose she does,” he had to admit.

“And you don’t.”

“I shouldn’t want to, frankly.” John tried to deflect them from this topic. “Anyway, how do you know that?” he pressed skeptically. He didn’t think Sherlock had the social savvy to come to that conclusion on his own.

“When you get slaves tipsy they’ll tell you all sorts of interesting things,” Sherlock revealed, and John grinned.

“Can I get in on _that_ experiment?” he asked cheekily. “I could use a few beers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to the bedroom. “You know, Bert could serve as a good model of subservience for you,” he judged.

“Yeah, speaking of him, is he still in the loo?” John asked, looking around in concern.

Sherlock sighed heavily at the low level of service he had to put up with. “Well go check,” he instructed. “Being sick will not get him out of this!” he warned loudly. “We’ll just put some garbage bags down.”

“That’s awful,” John responded, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He saw that the door to the hall bath was still closed and rapped on it briskly. “Hey, Bert—sorry, he’s got me saying it wrong now—Billy, you alright, mate? Come on out.”

There was a rush of water from inside and the door opened an inch, Billy peering out nervously. “Can you tell him I’m sick?” he whispered anxiously. “Please?”

John was quite certain the young man was not actually ill and he sighed. “No, that won’t get you out of it,” he told him with resignation. “Really, it’s not—which free people have you had sex with so far?” He really hoped this wasn’t his first time.

Billy rattled off a list of names, surprisingly long, but he was a pretty lad. Didn’t include Cedric, but then John didn’t recognize half of them and could put faces and reputations to even fewer.

“Well, you’ve got a lot of experience then, you know how this works,” John went on pragmatically. “Sherlock is really no worse than—than Lady Sylvia.”

Billy blinked at him. “She just wanted me to untangle her knitting.”

John blinked back. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No. Well, she wanted me to do it while naked,” Billy amended.

John made a noise of exasperation, trying not to let his mind picture that scene. “Look, I’m trying to help you and you’re just ruining my analogies!”

“Well, sorry,” Billy replied, clearly not aware of the importance of this.

“Okay, my point is—“

“John!” Sherlock shouted peevishly, making Billy jump.

“Alright, out of time,” John concluded. “Come on.” Reluctantly Billy left the bathroom and preceded John down the hall. “You could’ve had a nice pep talk, but you wasted it.”

“Sorry,” Billy repeated miserably as they entered the bedroom.

John patted his back. “I’m just joking with you. Trying to lighten the mood.” He got the sense this was futile.

“John, we are behind schedule,” Sherlock noted with disapproval. He gestured to the bed impatiently.

“Right. So, take off your clothes and lie face down on the bed,” John instructed the other slave. Even _he_ was starting to get tired of his wide-eyed looks and hesitation now. “Billy, you know what, I’m going to level with you, mate,” he said as the lad fiddled with his shirt buttons and Sherlock paced impatiently in the background (which was not helping). “You _might_ , indeed, not like this at all. But if you go back, someone else is gonna be standing here in your place.” Billy looked like he hadn’t thought this all the way through. “Maybe—who was that cute blond you were sitting by?”

Billy smiled at the mention of her. “Alice.”

John smiled back, but only briefly. “If you go back, the next person standing here might be Alice.” The smile dropped from Billy’s face. “So what you’re doing now, is you’re taking one for the team, Billy. For Alice. You understand?” He nodded slowly. “Good. Get your kit off.”

Sherlock met John’s gaze across the room and shook his head, but there was a slight smirk on his lips. That did not necessarily bode well, but John was too exasperated to interpret it further. People said _he_ was a bad slave because he had ‘attitude,’ but he did what he was told, didn’t he? Sherlock—who _was_ his first free person here—said ‘take off your clothes,’ he’d done it, not stood there quivering. John caught himself suddenly as he realized what he was thinking about—turning his nose up at a slave who had no choice about what happened to his body and dared to be frightened about it. Being proud of himself for being a ‘good slave’ who followed orders. Yes, this actually _was_ very much like being in the Army, he noted once again. Still better food and accommodations. But no reason he couldn’t show a little more compassion.

“You comfy?” he asked Billy more solicitously. “You cold?” He laid down on the other side of the bed. “I’ll be right here, mate. Nothing to worry about.” John stretched out his hand across the mattress and Billy took it, swallowing hard.

“I will be striking you four times, once each with four different belts,” Sherlock explained clinically, hopping around looking at Billy’s back from all different angles. From an outside perspective John could see that he _did_ look a bit mad, but at the same time he found himself getting a bit turned on, slightly disappointed it wasn’t _him_ Sherlock was paying attention to. John squeezed Billy’s hand and gave him an encouraging smile, but he got the sense the little scamp was not really appreciating the situation.

“Alright. Number one,” Sherlock announced.

“I _am_ out of the strike zone, aren’t I?” John checked.

“You might’ve asked earlier,” Sherlock noted shortly. “Yes, I think so.”

“Can we be sure?” John pressed, scooting his lower body farther away.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed brightly. “Number one!”

The belt whistled through the air and cracked across Billy’s lower back. John heard it thump on the bed a little too close to him for comfort, which he thought Sherlock had probably done on purpose. But then Billy was yelling at the top of his lungs and John glanced at Sherlock to make sure he wasn’t going to press on to number two before he crawled back over to the younger slave. “What’s wrong?” he asked, examining his flushed skin where the belt had hit.

“They’re always like this,” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. “Move, you’re blocking my light.” He took some pictures with his phone and peered closely at the mark he’d made. “Hmm, unexpected cross-hatching,” he murmured to himself, taking a magnifying lens to the back of the belt.

“Hey, calm down,” John advised Billy, rubbing his shoulder. “You know, it didn’t even break the skin.”

He sniffled a little. “It didn’t?”

John gave him an encouraging nod. “No. You’ll have a mark, yeah, but it will disappear in a few days.”

“Number two,” Sherlock warned, and John quickly squirmed back to his previous position.

“Try to relax,” John told Billy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock raise his arm and tried to keep the boy’s attention. “Is that position comfortable for you? Do you want to—“

Belt number two cracked across his back, setting him howling again. John was, frankly, more concerned with the light tap he’d felt near his own hip. “I think you got me with that one,” he reproached Sherlock.

Sherlock was not sympathetic. “You’re on the bed. Number three—“

“No, hang on, hang on—“ John countered, wanting to check on Billy.

“He’s not going to calm down or shut up or visualize happy trails of lava running down his back,” Sherlock snapped, deeply sarcastic and obviously dissatisfied with Billy’s performance. “Whatever pointless advice you have for him. Just make sure he stays still and put a pillow over his head.”

John hurried to do as he was ordered. “No, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s to protect your face from getting hit,” he assured Billy, who was resisting the pillow.

“Billy-12,” Sherlock said commandingly (which just proved he could remember things when he wanted to). Billy gulped and slowly turned to face him, his skin going pale. Sherlock pinned him to the bed with his ice-cold gaze. “You will not get out of this with your ridiculous protests. You will only make it more painful for yourself. I’ve got drawers full of belts I could test on you, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Billy answered promptly.

“It’s okay, it’s really okay,” John murmured behind him, rubbing his hair. He didn’t seem to notice.

“There are two strikes left,” Sherlock went on. “If you take them quietly, you’ll find the rest of the evening pleasant. If you continue to squall like an infant, I’ll have you in restraints in the corner for the rest of the night while John and I enjoy ourselves. Now which will it be?”

“I’ll be quiet, sir,” Billy claimed without much thought, eyes downcast. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’ll see,” Sherlock replied skeptically. He gave John a look, which had the other man scrambling up to the head of the bed out of the way, then raised his arm. “Number three.”

Billy squealed a little, with his mouth shut, and tensed his whole body, clutching at the bedspread; but this seemed like an improvement to John. “Hey, pillow!” he reminded Billy, dropping it back over his head as Sherlock picked up the fourth belt.

“Number four.” This one landed across Billy’s shoulder blades and again he whined, but less effusively and mostly muffled by the pillow.

John yanked the object away and grinned down at the boy, only slightly forced. “Hey, that’s it!” he enthused. “Great job!”

Sherlock snorted from where he loomed over Billy taking final pictures. “Do not have these treated,” he instructed. “No ice, no creams, short showers. I will summon you at regular intervals to check on the progress of the marks.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy acknowledged meekly.

Seeing Sherlock walk away and toe off his shoes, John felt it would be safe to crawl back down on the bed. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he insisted to Billy. He felt a little desperate for the boy to admit he agreed with him, and not necessarily for Billy’s own sake—if this random example of a typical slave didn’t see that Sherlock was reasonably fair and straightforward, as opposed to unpredictable and cruel, maybe it meant there really _was_ something wrong with John (and Molly). Of course, Sherlock would be the first to agree with this—that there _was_ something wrong with them, that is.

Billy did not satisfy this desire either, however, and merely gave John a look that was not so much inscrutable as dull. He didn’t even bother to ask John any questions, when he was right there and eager to share his perspective on how to make the most of the evening, what to expect from his injuries, or even how often Sherlock might call him back to check the results of this experiment. John supposed he could have been warming him up for Sherlock or something, but the distasteful feeling that term evoked and his general lack of easy attraction to Billy kept him fully clothed on his own side of the bed for the few minutes Sherlock spent undressing.

He was nearly as surprised as Billy, then, when Sherlock draped himself across the bed in between them, totally naked. “Are you staying for sex, or would you rather leave?” he asked, putting slightly more effort into making the former sound appealing. John found himself mesmerized by the play of pale skin over muscle and bone in front of him—this wasn’t a view of Sherlock he had very often, or an opportunity to appreciate said view without Sherlock’s full attention bearing down on him. Without fully realizing it his finger came up to the back of Sherlock’s neck, slowly tracing a light path down his spine.

“John,” Sherlock said sharply, and he started guiltily, noticing to his surprise that Billy was off the bed and rapidly pulling his clothes on. “Billy’s leaving, escort him out.”

“Oh, right.” With some reluctance John rolled off the bed and followed Billy out into the hall, the younger slave being rather eager to make good his escape before Sherlock could change his mind or otherwise trick him. John tried to clear his head. “Seriously, mate, I don’t know what you were on about,” he said to Billy lightly. “I mean, haven’t you ever been flogged before, like as punishment?”

“Oh sure,” Billy agreed readily, reinforcing John’s view of this society’s casual violence. “My old man used to belt me all the time.”

“Oh, you’re from the streets?” He nodded. John actually hadn’t met that many people who were slaves from birth. “Well then, what were you fussing about?” he asked in exasperation. “That surely must’ve hurt more than this.”

“Well, I guess,” Billy conceded, then added before John could feel too much relief, “But it’s not really the _pain_ , is it?” He glanced back over his shoulder, hand on the doorknob, as if prepared to dart away should Sherlock wander out. “It’s his _eyes_ , innit? His voice. You don’t know what he’s on about. My old man used to get drunk and mad about something, and he’s whip me awful! But he never—looked at me like I—wasn’t quite human,” Billy tried to explain. Clearly he was out of his depth. John tried to appreciate the effort anyway.

“Oh. Well, he let you go, anyway,” he pointed out, done making his case for Sherlock. Maybe instead he should examine why it was so important to him. “Really, don’t have those treated, he’ll know and it will go worse for you.”

“Right.” Billy was now standing in the hallway, looking left and right with confusion. “How do I get out of here?”

John looked in the correct direction to get back to the slave zone and thought of all the twists and turns involved. Then he looked in the other direction. “Go that way, turn right, head to the guard station. They’ll explain it,” he advised. After all, Sherlock was waiting for him in bed, naked.

“Okay, thanks.” John shut the door and saw that the lock automatically engaged, per usual, then went back to the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, propped up against the pillows, totally unconcerned with being naked (and why should he be). He gave John an unimpressed look as he started to undress. “What?” John finally asked.

“You make things _difficult_ , John,” Sherlock proclaimed, rolling elegantly off the bed just as John crawled on.

John frowned. “When? Where are you—“

“Face down,” Sherlock ordered, picking up his phone, and John sighed and did as he was told. Sherlock hovered over him, taking pictures of the small, irregular circles dotting his back. “Interesting. They’ve faded faster than I anticipated. John!” He smacked the other man’s hip from his perch straddling his thighs. “You are not paying attention.”

“No, I’m naked in bed with you naked on top of me,” John retorted. “My mind was wandering a bit.”

He assumed Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. “Did you have these injuries treated?” he accused.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

He felt Sherlock leaning over to look at them more closely. “Hmm, the damage must’ve been less severe than I thought,” he mused.

“Stung like the dickens at the time,” John remarked dryly.

“So you kept saying.” Sherlock rolled off him and lay on his side on the bed, head propped up on his fist. John mimicked the posture, hoping they were finally going to get started. Disappointingly, Sherlock looked _thoughtful_ , though, and John tried to hurry things along by scooting closer and kissing his shoulder.

“Bernie is what I typically see in slaves,” Sherlock commented, as though this was significant.

“Billy,” John corrected, continuing to nuzzle his arm. “Which you remembered perfectly well when you wanted to put the fear of G-d into him.”

“I don’t care how he feels about G-d,” Sherlock shot back, “as long as he obeys _me_. Which normally they’re a bit better about, because you aren’t there smiling like a fool at them and sending mixed signals.”

Mixed signals were what John was getting from Sherlock—chastising words coupled with a hand on the back of his head, encouraging John to move his lips up to Sherlock’s throat. “Mmm, so then by ‘typical’ you meant…”

“Subservient, reluctant, unenthusiastic, eager to leave.”

John could feel the words rumbling in his throat. “Well he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Finally he thought Sherlock was beginning to get more into it, running his hands through John’s hair, brushing his lips ever more forcefully against his skin. Sometimes he just got caught up in thinking about his experiment and needed a little coaxing to move on.

“You didn’t like him anyway,” Sherlock murmured around kisses, and John struggled to remember what they were talking about, and why they were talking at all. “Next time pick someone you’re more attracted to. Then I won’t have to go to the assembly room at all.”

For a moment John was blissfully unconcerned with Sherlock’s words. Then they slid home in his consciousness, and he had a sudden image of himself standing at the front of the assembly room, looking imperiously out over the sea of faces, all of them hoping his eye passed over them and hating him for doing their master’s work for him. Frantically he pulled back from Sherlock, a feeling of horror gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

“John--!” Sherlock complained. Then he saw John’s expression. “Oh dear. You seem to be having a moral crisis.” His tone was very snide. “What now?”

“Have I—have I become a _collaborator_ now?” John blurted. It was the only word that came to mind and it had ugly connotations for him.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and the hand stroking John’s neck gripped it harder. “That would suggest, John,” he said in a dangerously silky tone, “that I am the _enemy_. Do you think I’m the enemy?”

“We’re certainly not equals,” John dared to reply. “Ow, could you stop?”

Sherlock’s hand on his neck relaxed slightly. “No, we certainly aren’t.”

“Okay, just let me think for a minute—“ In Gelsomina the rebels used the hated word ‘collaborator’ for locals who worked with the official government and the armies sent to restore order, but obviously John—as part of those armies—valued the willingness of those locals to see the bigger picture and help fulfill their common goal of peace. So it could be a complex situation. Did any of that reasoning apply here? On the surface it would seem not—

“John, there’s nothing to think about,” Sherlock interrupted sharply. “You’re here and we’re going to have sex. If you prefer to ponder weighty philosophical issues, get out.”

“No, wait, I think it’s okay,” John decided desperately, holding on to Sherlock when he started to move away, “because you let Billy go, you didn’t _make_ him have sex.” Sherlock sighed heavily at John’s reasoning. “And you didn’t really _beat_ him, it was only four strikes, and you weren’t angry or doing it just for kicks.” Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the mattress. “I mean, he does seem to _think_ you’re the enemy, but I don’t know why, maybe it’s some kind of societal divide I didn’t grow up with so I don’t have the same underlying assumptions—“

“Tedious,” Sherlock announced.

John grinned suddenly, drawing him back. “No, it’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s okay. But I’m not picking slaves for you. I would just ask Sally who didn’t mind. And maybe I wouldn’t even try to talk to them. I could just wait in the living room.”

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked after a moment. John could tell he was peeved and tried to soothe him. “Have you aligned your moral compass to rationalize enjoying my company? No need to fear you’re betraying your comrades-in-bondage every time you kiss me?” He pushed off the bed and stalked over to the closet, as if he was going to get dressed again.

John rolled over to follow him. “Hang on,” he said in confusion. “Have I—have I _hurt your feelings_?” This concept astounded him, at least when he applied it to Sherlock. He would not have thought the other man _capable_ of hurt feelings—impatience, irritation, anger, yes, but _hurt_? Well why not, he was only human. “Oh, I’m sorry,” John told him sincerely. “I shouldn’t have said all that, I can see how it would be hurtful. I was just—confused, because Billy was acting so strangely, and I didn’t understand why—“

“Billy wasn’t acting strangely,” Sherlock countered from where he was contemplating his little-used tie collection. “You and Molly are the odd ones.”

John rolled his eyes, but at least Sherlock sounded normal again. “Well, alright. We’re odd, then. I guess.” Clearly this was not the right time to think on it further. “I’ve just never been odd before, I’ve always been rather dull,” he added self-deprecatingly.

Sherlock wandered out holding a red tie in his hand. “Yes, I can see that,” he agreed. John thought maybe his concern for Sherlock’s feelings was not entirely reciprocated. “Hands.” John automatically held out his hands and Sherlock began to expertly bind them together with the necktie.

“Wait, what are you doing?” John barely thought to ask.

“What does it look like, John? Go on, give it your best guess.” There was definitely sarcasm in his tone.

John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It does not look like light duty.”

“Would you like to lodge an objection?” Sherlock offered in a cordial tone, knotting the tie. He stepped back. “Please, feel free to leave. I know proper morality is a big turn-on for you.”

John rolled his eyes again, finding he couldn’t easily release his hands. “No, not exactly an _objection_ ,” he tried to explain, and Sherlock stepped back up to him, forcing John to tip his head back to meet his intense gaze. “Won’t we get in trouble, though?”

Sherlock’s hand slid to the back of his head again, encouraging him forward. “Are you going to tell? No? Well, neither will I.”

John was not really sure he trusted Sherlock’s judgment. On the other hand he was no longer sure he trusted his own, either. Which was a curious and oddly exhilarating state of affairs.

“Is there anything else you would like to discuss, John?” Sherlock asked with fake solicitousness.

“Can I not be on my back?” John responded quickly, before he stopped caring. “It’s still a bit sore.”

“I think I can manage that,” Sherlock decided. The calculating look in his eye made John’s heart race.


End file.
